Carrion man, groaning for burial
by The Bella Cat
Summary: So it's not a love story, but it's a story about love. It's a story about suffering and vengeance, pain and redemption. Because sometimes, just sometimes, when things go so wrong, so very wrong, you get a second chance to put them right. Non ZA supernatural AU


**Ok, so I don't even know what this is. I guess it's a _Walking Dead / The Crow_ crossover Bethyl AU. That's a thing ok?**

**Basically this is a Bethyl story which I have mixed into James O'Barr's _The Crow_ mythos. I am going to attempt to write this so that you do not need to know anything about _The Crow_ in order to comprehend the story. You will get a bit more out of it if you do, but it's not necessary. If you know nothing about _The Crow_ consider it a supernatural, no zombie Bethyl AU, film noir, revenge thingie (it's a thing ok?).**

**But seriously, go watch _The Crow_. It's amazing.**

**I don't own anything. Everything is either owned by AMC or James O'Barr or Miramax, including some lines of dialogue I have taken liberties with.**

**So yeah IDK what to make of this. It's an AU of both universes. But it's also kind of not.**

**With thanks to William Shakespeare for the appropriated title from _Julius Caesar_.**

**Chapter titles from The Cure song _Burn,_ which was written for _The Crow _(I couldn't call another fic _Burn_)**

* * *

**_"Hope is the thing with feathers  
That perches in the soul,  
And sings the tune without the words,  
And never stops at all."_**

**~ Emily Dickinson, _Hope Is The Thing With Feathers_.**

_This is a story about love._

_It's about pain._

_It's about suffering._

_It's about revenge._

_This is a story about love_

_But it's not a love story._

_There is no happy ending._

_And there is no magic._

XXXXXX

It's just a tap, nothing more. Just a tap against chipped stone. Against granite or maybe it's marble. A final tribute to the dead, a life condensed to a series of dates, a remembrance. A short legacy of words and numbers.

_Daryl Dixon, brother, protector, husband._

Simple, easy, straightforward.

_Daryl Dixon 1974 to 2012._

Nothing more to say really. He never was one for words. That was her. All her.

It's just a tap.

An old man's walking stick on a sidewalk, the brush of knuckles against hard wood, a friendly neighbour at the gate. It's barely a sound to begin with, barely resonates at all. And when it does, it's drowned out by the rain, the steady drone of the afternoon rush, blaring sirens and the voices of children carried on icy wind.

It's just a tap.

Light. Soft. Innocuous. All the things a tap should be. But it's also like a gunshot. Loud and hard. Shocking. Reverberating like thunder through the sky. An earthquake. An earthquake that shatters the ground and rips the very innards of the earth to shreds. Breaks its bones. Tears its flesh.

Tears its flesh and mends his. Breaks its bones and rebuilds his.

It does more than that too. Much _much _more.

There is no magic. There is life, there is death. And then there is this.

It's just a tap.

But it rouses him. But rousing shouldn't be a thing.

It calls to him. But calling shouldn't be a thing either.

And he answers. He answers because he has to.

A moment of agony as he opens his eyes. White-hot and searing, coursing through his newly mended bones, his blood - dried with time - now starting to flow again, broken skin sewing itself back together. But it's only a moment and then it's gone. And there's something else instead.

Panic as he moves his fingers, cold and stiff at his side. Panic at the wrongness of it. It's not a question of where he is or who he is. It's nothing nearly that simple. Rather it's a question of why. Why he is. Why he can open his eyes and smell wet earth. Why he can clench his tortured hands. Why he can hear that gunshot tap and taste the dry decay of his mouth.

And the dread crashes through him, crashes through every unholy, undead cell in his unholy, undead body. Fuses with him, envelops him in a sickly embrace, tighter and deadlier than he's already enveloped in wood, in earth and soil, in death and now again, apparently in life.

They become one.

He became one with something, no - _someone _\- else once.

_Beth,_ he says her name through a mouthful of death, _Beth._

_She's here_, he thinks, _she has blonde hair and bright eyes. She has scars._

_She's here._

_(I love you_

_Say that again_

_I love you)_

He remembers. He remembers and then he forgets. He forgets everything. Because there is no room for it now. No room for anything. He was dead. Now he is not.

That is all there is.

That and the vengeance in his heart, his blood.

And he can't breathe. Can't even move. He struggles for a moment. Struggles against it. Gives in. Surrenders. Chokes on it.

He's dying. Again.

He can't breathe. And then he can.

Satin sheets at his back, a wooden door to his front.

_No, that's not right. It can't be._

_What secret place is this? This place where the rooms are barely big enough to move and you sleep in a suit and tie, your hair growing long over your dress shirt's collar? What place is this where there is no air, just the musty smell of soil, and yet you breathe anyway? What place is this?_

_What place is this?_

_WHAT PLACE IS THIS?_

The tapping again. Still light. Still loud. Insistent now. Calling to him through earth and soil. Through rot and ruin and warped wood. It's telling him to move. That he can't lie here in this secret place where the sun will never shine and his body will never die. He has to move.

He has to move.

_HE HAS TO MOVE._

So he does. Scarred, inked hands grappling against this birch tomb, pressing against the door, against soggy wood and splintered shards. Somewhere he knows it's not really a door. Somewhere he knows it's a lid. A lid to cover a box. A box for the dead to sleep in.

But he can't think on that now. Lest the panic return. Lest the agony make him slow and stupid. Slower than he already is. Stupider than he always was. He'll consider it later. File it away as one of life's goddamned mysteries to ponder on in times of quiet contemplation.

He knows he has none of those times to look forward to. And he's fine with that. Let mysteries stay unsolved. Let death remain dead.

He'll think on it later.

When he's found her.

Because he will.

Because he has to.

The tapping again. It's growing more insistent.

_Come, come,_ it says. _You have work to do. So much work._

And he pushes against the rotted wood. Wood warped and sodden, saturated by a spring of relentless rain. Wood that shatters like twigs under his hands, as he fists his way through drenched soil and old bones, the slime of earthworms and malleable new tree roots.

He claws his way back from death.

He does it because he must.

There's soil in his face now, mud in his eyes. He tries to breathe again, finds a mouthful of dirt instead, sand against his teeth and grit on his tongue. He spits it back. Earth into earth. Giving back. But it stays with him, chokes him, clogs his throat with wet leaves and dry death.

He heaves himself further up into the soil, kicking at the rot as if he can swim his way free of the dirt and dust. He's mostly free of the box now. Mostly. Except for where one of the splinters rips through the leg of his pants, knee to ankle, piercing skin, scraping along bone. He'd scream but for that he needs air.

He'd scream but for that he needs the will do it.

So he doesn't scream.

He's quiet. Concentrating on shifting earth above him, moving upwards, finding purchase where there is none, body moving like a mud snake, twisting and circling.

But still he can't breathe.

And still he thinks he might just fall back. Fall back to his tomb. To that shroud that held him. Held him for so long. How long he doesn't know. But for long. Long in oblivion and short in reality.

So he fights harder. Lungs screaming for air, even though they're not. It's just the ritual he misses, the rhythmic filling of his lungs and the exhale that flattens them again.

_Can we drown on land? Can we?_

_Maybe. Maybe we can do a lot of things we don't think we should._

He pushes again, wonders how far he's come from his grave. That bed of death. That final resting place.

_Not so final now is it?_

Not so final at all.

Because yes, this is like death. But it's also like birth.

It's exactly like birth.

Emerging from Death's cunt back into the world. There's poetry in that. Sick and twisted poetry. But poetry nonetheless.

Leave the oblivion behind, that floating place of souls and mist, that void of fairy dust and dream magic. Leave it behind and find yourself back in the soil and the rot. Back in the decay.

Some unlucky souls are not meant for life.

The really unlucky are not meant for death either.

He fights the dirt again. There's no leverage here. Nothing to hold, not even a memory of how his limbs are meant to work. He wonders if this is what it's like for a butterfly emerging from its cocoon. If this is making him strong somehow. Strong enough to do what must be done.

_And what is that?_ he asks himself as he claws through soil and death. _And _what _is that? Why does he need stronger legs and chiselled arms? Why does he need wings to fly?_

Doesn't he have them already?

A flash, a flash of light and he sees her. All blonde hair and blue eyes. Naked flesh covered only by a vest. His vest. Black leather against milk white skin. Angel wings at her back, a halo of gold around her head. She's posing, a coy smile on her lips, looking at him over her shoulder.

That damn vest always suited her better anyway.

And she's dancing. But it's more of a tease really. And then she's shrugging out of the vest and he's already off the bed, halfway across the room to her...

_No, no, no, no._

No, he can't.

It tugs at him, dragging him down, back to the oblivion. A lasso around his ankle, a wild horse at his head.

_Oh God, please let it not be this, please let it not be true._

He grits his teeth, dead leaves and flecks of dirt smattered across his lips, his cheeks.

Oblivion would be so easy. So easy.

But…

_But tap tap tap._

It's there again.

It calls. It calls and then it whispers.

So he fights. Like he always has.

And with every millimetre he moves through the soil he feels that panic start to wane, to ebb. It flows out, but something else flows in.

Something deep and dark. Something that settles around him like cobwebs, sticky and tight, dripping through his pores, into his flesh, his blood.

_Does he even bleed anymore_, he wonders.

_Does it matter?_

A final push against soil that shifts beneath him. No purchase, no leverage.

Just sounds, wet sounds of mud and debris.

But it works, somehow it works.

And like a newborn, weak and helpless, he emerges from the womb of the earth, soil and leaves his amniotic fluid, roots and trees his umbilicus.

And like a newborn he lies there, shattered and still. Waiting for someone to clean him off, wrap him up and put him to his mother's breast. But no one comes. Because there is no one and he's alone. Because he's always alone. So he lies there in the dirt, in the rain and the wind and the soggy mess of rotting leaves. He breathes now. Breathes slow, breathes deep. Face down in the mud, looking for a way back. Wondering about a way forward. Adjusts to those old familiar sounds. Sirens, rain, wind and the voices it carries.

He lies there in a cheap burial suit and a face muddied by death and then again by life.

He thinks he'll lie there forever. Wait for the rain to pass, for the sun to shine.

It's Georgia, after all. Surely the sun will come out again. It always does.

Blonde hair, blue eyes, the flash of white teeth. And he curls himself around the pain.

Another. Her again. They're walking through a forest. Or is it down a cobbled street? She wants a drink. He just wants to get away.

_(You gotta stay who you are.)_

He doubles over again. Dry heaving into the earth.

Maybe he can vomit. Retch the badness out. He wonders what would happen if he did. If there'd be leaves and worms, black soil mixed with blacker bile.

It doesn't matter.

Because he can't vomit.

But he can lie in the dirt. Lie in it and wait to die in it again, rain washing down his cheap suit, soaking his long hair.

He could just wait.

See the flash of her smile.

Listen to her sing.

_(we're alone in our own world)_

Hear her voice.

_(it does matter)_

And then blood, blood and tears and a hail of bullets.

He tried.

_He tried._

Just not hard enough.

So he waits. Waits for something. Anything.

He thinks maybe she'll find him, find him as she once did in the sun and in the dirt. The way she wrapped her arms around him and made him fall in love with her the very first time. The way he fell in love with her over and over again every day since. Not even death can stop that. Not even death can break it. He waits for her even though he knows she won't come.

He waits and he waits and he waits.

He doesn't think he'll ever stop waiting.

He can hear sirens again, loud and whiny, coming closer. He wonders if they're coming for him. Wonders if someone told them they buried a man alive and he needs attention.

Immediate medical attention.

But who would tell?

He's alone. Alone in the dirt. Lying in an open grave and, when he catches the blue and red lights of a police cruiser rushing by without slowing, he knows he always will be.

Maybe not by himself. Maybe not the last man standing.

But without her.

And without her he is always alone.

_My girl, my sweet girl._

There's a stone angel to the right. More grey crosses, some ornate, some less so. Some headstones just slabs of concrete or granite. Others marble.

Souls laid to rest, sent on their final journey. Souls death chooses to accept, keep close to her breast.

And then there's him. And he's not one of these souls. He's dead. But he's also alive.

And he wonders where she is before he realises that he knows, that he doesn't have to read the tombstone next to his.

He knows. How could he not?

_Beth Greene Dixon, wife, daughter, sister_

Less easy. Not so straightforward anymore.

_Beth Greene Dixon, 1990 to 2012_

He forgot. But now he remembers.

Blood and brains, screams and tears. And begging, lots and lots of begging. Not from her, mind. Never from her. From him. Only from him. Pleading. _Please dear God stop it. Take me, take me instead. Let her go. She won't say anything._

_You want blood, take mine._

And then he screams, thrusting his fist into his mouth to muffle the sound, raging at the world, at God, at death, at this consecrated and yet now unholy ground he lies on. People must hear, they must. Even over the sounds of the rain and the wind, the sirens and the children. They must hear.

The screams of a walking dead man.

They _must_.

So he waits for them to come. To find him here in the dirt. To ask their stupid questions about how and why and where and when. To wonder at the open grave and the torn burial clothes, the hair growing long over his collar.

But they don't come.

Because no one hears.

Because he is alone.

He is always alone without her.

And so he screams.

And as he does he realises that panic that earlier melded with his cells never ebbed. Never left. It transformed. Transmuted.

He was transformed once. Transformed by a girl with blonde hair who drank moonshine and played "I never" with him. A girl who found a way into his heart, who let him into hers. Who rebuilt him the first time. A girl who took him to her bed and held him to her breast and whispered sweet and low into his ear that she loved him. And when he asked her to say it again, she did.

But this is different because he's still that man. Still that man who was hers. Because he doesn't know how to be anything else. He's hers but he doesn't belong to her any more.

Now he just belongs to himself.

And there's no panic. Not now. There's no room for that.

There is only rage.

And when he's screamed the soil and the leaves and the air from his lungs and he lies there as spent as he was every time he lay with her, he hears a flurry of wings over his head.

Midnight black feathers, glossy and smooth. Small beady eyes. A beak sharp and deadly.

A single crow.

A carrion bird.

Come to feed on the dead.

He looks at it and it looks back.

And they regard each other with a mutual understanding that they are both in this world but not of it.

He knows it's an ancient thing, maybe not in years but in mythos, in legend. Ancient like him. Ancient like the universe. He sees it as it once was, a nestling, sees how even then as a screeching chick it was venerated by the earth, by nature.

Small beady eyes to seek you out.

Sharp, deadly beak to break you.

And black glossy wings to carry your soul.

_Come,_ it says, _it's time._

XXXXXX

It starts the way it ends. As all things do. Ashes to ashes and dust to dust. Suffering in birth and suffering in death.

Later he'll forget everything. Everything except this. This moment. The first time he sees her in the flesh. The real her. He'll forget everything but this. Everything but that.

It starts as it ends. A wet and miserable night, lightning jagging across a dark grey sky, rain pelting down on the earth and the sound of sirens in the air. A peal of thunder, irate voices, people hiding under black umbrellas, cars weaving through puddles, plumes of water rising up under black tyres. Soaking the streets and its sidewalks. Soaking the people, drowning the earth with melancholy.

It starts as it ends. In a graveyard. At night. In the rain.

_Could you be any more fucking dramatic?_ he asks Rick.

He doesn't want to be here. This is beyond fucked up. Beyond. Fucked. Up. And he still can't believe he agreed to it. Can't believe he's standing here freezing his balls off in a graveyard, huddled under a mossy stone awning. Can't believe he's about to take this on.

The rain hasn't let up. Not for weeks. Georgia hasn't seen rain like this in years. It gets to him, it gets to them all.

_You sure you can pull this off?_ Rick asks. Must be the hundredth time.

He doesn't answer. Doesn't answer because yesterday all he wanted to do was get his asshole brother out of jail. All he wanted to do was go back to bed and forget the world existed. He guesses this is a debt. And debts must be paid. But he's done paying for Merle.

_You sure you know how to disappear?_ Rick asks. Also for the hundredth time.

_I said I could, didn't I?_ he snaps back. He's not angry with Rick. Not really. It's Merle, Merle and his bullshit, Merle and his fuck-ups, Merle and the fact that no matter what he has to pay for it.

He has a cellphone and a bag of cash. He has a number to call if he gets into a fix. Which he shouldn't. But if, just _if _he does. He has Rick's word that the DA can cut Merle a deal. That he'll go somewhere decent and not for too long. That he'll be protected. That he'll be out in no time on good behaviour, which is a joke in itself. And that they'll have him in rehab. He'll be a new man, sober, clean and he'll never get into a fix like this again.

He doesn't believe it.

But Merle is blood and he has to try.

Even if he's doomed to fail.

This is the price. This is the balance.

Rick shifts next to him in the rain. He's dressed in dark jeans and a black windbreaker. No sheriff's star in sight. But Daryl knows there's a gun at his hip and even though he looks like the dad he is, he's ready. Ready for what Daryl doesn't know. Whatever the fuck he thinks is going to happen here isn't going down. But he's ready anyway.

_These are good people, _Rick continues. _Really good people._

He doesn't have to say it. It hangs wet in the air between them.

_They're_ good people. But Merle isn't. And it's the best damn shot his shit-for-brains brother has.

DUI, hit and run, gross negligence, aggravated assault, reckless endangerment, theft and the possibility of vehicular manslaughter. Maybe at one point voluntary manslaughter. Well at least that's off the table. The little girl's alive. She'll probably never do ballet again, but she's alive. And right now that's what counts.

Unfortunately what also counts is the little girl's mom is Lilly Chambler. And two days ago Lilly Chambler was planning her wedding. In fact when Merle, shit faced and raring for a fight, drove his stolen SUV into Lilly and her daughter, Meghan, they were on their way to fit their dresses. You see Lilly's getting married next week.

And no, technically that doesn't count.

What does count is she's marrying Philip Blake. And yeah, he's a douchebag and yeah, no one likes him. But yeah, he's also Atlanta's mayor.

And yeah, he's throwing everything he has at the asshole redneck who mowed his soon-to-be family down.

And yeah, pragmatically, Daryl can't really fault him for that.

Pragmatically, it doesn't seem like it could go any other way.

You take care of your own. You protect them. And to hell with anyone who gets in the way of that.

He gets it.

Even respects it.

Either way though, Merle sure knows how to pick them.

And now here he is. Paying the debt. Again. Rick told him there was nothing he could do. Sure they go back a long way. Sure they do. And yeah he's got Merle out of binds before. But this? This is serious. This ain't something you can knock down to a warning or time served, a little mandatory rehab or some community service spent playing with abandoned kittens at animal shelters. Not this.

And the truth is why should it be?

_Come on Daryl,_ he said. _He could have killed her. It's a miracle he didn't. She's ten years old. As it is she might never walk without a limp. Girl loved ballet, but she stands as much chance of doing a pirouette now as she does of flying. Merle _should _be locked away. Merle _should_ pay for this._

He's right. He's so right.

But Merle is blood.

His blood.

And there ain't nothing to be done about that.

And there ain't nothing to be done for this either.

Except there is. Somehow a few hushed phone calls and a day of despair later, there is.

He has a memory of that old man waiting at the sheriff's office. That old man who looked like Santa, reeked of booze and fear. That old man with one leg and mouthful of rage. It's his money Daryl has now. Handed over earlier on in a innocuous leather tote bag. Handed over with tears and too much grief to bear. The old man couldn't even look at him, wouldn't meet his eyes. But his hand was hard on Daryl's shoulder as he walked away.

_She's everything,_ he said. _She's more than you._

And he guesses that's true. But he still can't believe he's here. Can't believe that of all the deals in the world he could cut for Merle, it's this.

It's a hell of a time for Rick to start calling in favours.

A _hell_ of a time.

Can't blame him though. Rick's sharp. You don't become sheriff without being smart. And this is big, bigger than he imagined. And Merle's debt is high. And the price must be paid. It must.

Still, he can't believe that a little over 24 hours ago he was sitting in the precinct in Rick's office wondering how he was going to bail Merle out and how he was going to get the old Santa waiting in the hall outside to shut up.

Turns out he killed two birds with one stone.

_Har-de-fucking-har._

_Where is she?_ he asks moving further into the shadow of the church, the shelter provided by a rude awning. Yeah, he's like a cat. Can't fucking stand the wet.

And it's a deluge here. Georgia hasn't seen rain like this in years. But here it is today, pelting down out of the black sky, thick, viscous even. Washing the city clean. Sluicing the sin off its granite skin and sending it down into the gutters, the sewers, where it will fester. Fester and grow until a new infection rises from the depths. Something different and awful and more frightening than before. It'll eat the city from the inside out and then again from the outside in. Until one day, one day, the rain falls again like this. And then that too will become a distant memory, a taint washed out to sea. Before the whole cycle starts again.

He thinks he's caught the taint. Thinks what he's agreed to do is going to infect him, make him part of the city's insidious underbelly.

Rick points towards a black van pulling into the graveyard.

The windows are tinted and the headlights out. It moves slowly through the graves. A leviathan or maybe a ghost ship rising silently from the depths. Dropping cargo before disappearing again.

_Could you be any more fucking dramatic?_

He expects to see Shane getting out the car. Rick's partner. A hothead, douchebag deputy with eyes for Rick's wife. Guy's so hopped up on himself it may as well be a drug. But it isn't Shane. No, this is someone new. Big. Tall. Merle would say he looks like a brick shithouse. He'd be right. Even down to his red hair and a fucking ridiculous walrus moustache.

_Shane?_ Daryl asks.

Rick shakes his head.

_I don't know how deep or how high this goes, _he'd said earlier._ I don't know who to trust._

He never figured that extended to Shane. He knows this is big, knows it's why Rick's been looking so grey. Knows that wild, frightened look in his eyes had more to do with this and less to do with Lori and the new baby. Less to do with Merle.

Yeah, he doesn't think Merle keeps anyone up at night.

Anyone except him.

Rick says the man's name is Abraham. Says he called in a favour.

Rick's calling in a lot of favours for one little girl.

Lightning flashes across the sky, illuminating everything, the graveyard, the street, the girl with the scarred face stepping out of the van, clutching a small black backpack and a tiny hunting knife.

And for a moment Daryl can't move. He's seen her picture, saw it yesterday lying on Rick's desk. She's pretty. Pretty in a Disney princess way. Long blonde hair and enormous blue eyes, full lips. Couldn't harm a fly, not without crying first at least.

But now that he can see her, truly see her, one scar on her cheek, another high on her brow, he sees her eyes are steely and her jaw is set. There's an edge to her he didn't expect. That no photograph could convey.

_What the fuck did they do to you, girl? What the fuck?_

He knows the story. Rick explained it to him earlier. Rick with his tired eyes and worn smile. A four o' clock shadow that stretched to midnight. He'd had a hell of a night. Said he hadn't seen his family in 48 hours. Could be another 48 before he does.

But this girl. This girl is everything. She's both the key and the fuse that could ignite something far bigger than they can imagine.

He doesn't know how deep or how high it goes. He said he didn't have all the names but he has some. And they're cops, that's the thing. And she can identify them. And that's why he needs to get her as far away as he can.

That's the debt. This is how he makes sure Merle isn't blamed for the crumbling economy and 9/11 too and whatever else Blake can think of.

_You do this for me and I'll do right by you. You do this for me and I'll speak to the DA. Andrea and I go back a long way. Andrea and Blake go back a long way too. We'll work something out. But you have to do this for me._

_Why me? _he asked. _Why me? An asshole redneck with a bigger asshole for a brother._

_You know how to find people, _Rick said._ You know how they get caught. You need to lose them now._

He guesses he _is _the best man for the job.

Doesn't make it easier to swallow though.

Abe, big and burly, holds out his hand to her and the girl takes it. She's dwarfed next to him. Maybe they all are. She glances back at the car once and another flash of lightning reveals the old man from the precinct in the back seat. Tears in his eyes. She says nothing as she turns away and allows herself to be led to them.

No goodbyes then. Not even to her dad.

Girl's a piece of work.

Rick's shaking Abe's hand, clapping him on the shoulder. They're speaking but Daryl can't hear them through the gush of rain. The howl of wind. The girl isn't paying attention to them though. She's looking at him. Sizing him up. He wonders how much he falls short.

She _is_ a princess. He sees that now. A daddy's girl. The daddy she left behind in the car. Rick said she was a drama student. He didn't need anyone to tell him that with her casually ripped jeans and oversized jumper, the way her fingers twist in the too long sleeves.

He guesses there ain't going to be much to talk about. And that suits him just fine.

He never was one for talking anyway.

And then Abe is done, he touches the girl's back, nods at Daryl and he's gone, walking to the van. He doesn't dawdle. Pulls the doors closed and drives off. The girl doesn't give a backwards glance but her eyes are full of tears and he find he has to look away.

She's been through hell and back if what Rick says is true. He guesses it ain't his place to judge.

He knows her name is Beth. Beth Greene. But Rick introduces them anyway. She nods, doesn't say anything.

They're going to get on just fine.

Rick asks again about the cellphone, the money. Again with the "you sure you can handle it", again with "you know the stakes."

And Daryl waves the words away. Tells Rick to stop. Tells him to sort this shit out so they can come home. Tells him to work his charm with the DA and get Merle a good deal.

And Rick nods. And he looks so tired Daryl thinks he might collapse on the spot. And then he kisses Beth's forehead and pats Daryl's shoulder.

_Go home, _Daryl tells him, _go to Lori. Play with your boy. See Judith. Sleep. Sort this out tomorrow. We're going to be okay._

And he doesn't like that he's already calling him and Beth "we", like they're connected or something. Like this is a long-term thing. Like there could ever be an investment in this for him beyond his asshole brother not spending the rest of his life behind bars.

_Keep her safe, _Rick says, _fishing his car keys out of his pockets. We're all counting on you._

He doesn't need to say it. It's all already been said. And they shouldn't linger. Not here. In this graveyard. At night.

And as they're turning to leave, there's a second when the rain and wind stops and it's quiet. No cars, no voices, just silence like the world is holding its breath.

It lasts for a long moment. Long and empty.

And then thunder rolls loud and guttural, lightning shooting across the sky and behind them there's a flurry of wings, high pitched screeches and squawks, as dozens of crows rise out of the trees, cawing to each other, to the rain, to the graves.

As one the three of them turn to look, watch as the birds fly from their nests, their roosts, out into the wet night, taking the din of their voices with them.

_You know what they call them?_ Rick asks him as the rain starts again. _A bunch of them?_

_Yeah,_ he says. He knows.

_Could you be any more fucking dramatic?_

And then Rick's walking away, melding into the graves, disappearing into the night.

It's time for them to follow suit.

He touches Beth's shoulder and as if by instinct she falls into step at his side and together they leave the graveyard, head out of the elements and into his truck where they sit in silence for a moment watching the rain pour down the windshield.

And then she turns to look at him and he wonders what she's thinking. If she's angry that Rick handed her over to him, that he made her leave her dad and her life. If she wishes there was another way. Because there must be another way. Anything is better than this.

But all she says is _Thanks_. Soft and low and he knows she means it.

_Don't thank me yet,_ he says starting the car. _You ain't safe. You won't be for a long time._

And she eyes him up and down.

_We'll see._

He shrugs. Ain't the first teenage girl with her head in the clouds. Won't be the last.

But she smiles. Even with her scars and her haunted eyes she smiles.

_Wouldn't kill you to have a little faith,_ she whispers, leaning back against the seat as they head out onto the street. _Just a little._

And that's when the dread settles in his belly. The dread that will never leave. Because in that moment he knows how it will end. He feels it in his bones. He sees it in her eyes. He sees it in her scars.

It will end with her.

It will end as it begins.

With the light in her eyes and the sound of her voice.

XXXXXX

_So it's not a love story._

_And it is about suffering._

_And there is no happy ending._

_But maybe it was a lie, and maybe there is a little magic._


End file.
